This is not your sweatpants kind of place.
Haley sits at our table, and I ask, “I have to be social?” My recent vow to be more fun—more interesting and eccentric—suddenly feels highly implausible, considering the sight of three extra chairs sends me into a panic.
“Just talk about your speech tomorrow,” Haley says without an ounce of empathy. “Please don’t discuss your neighbor’s cat or the best gelato flavor. You’ll be fine.”
Social butterflies never understand the introvert.
“At least she can’t reach Jake out here,” Kathleen says.
That’s true. I can’t reach Jake. I know this because I frantically tried returning his phone call after the safety drill. By then, there was no cell service and that was probably a sign. I may or may not have kept trying incessantly until caught by Kathleen, though I’ll never own up to it. Jake is probably on his honeymoon as we speak, and the hope for any closure has evaporated like a small puddle on deck.
We settle into our purple chairs as if we’ve suddenly become royalty. The sight of everyone dressed to the nines in the cavernous room makes me long for the quiet of my sofa and my neighbor’s cat. “I wonder what’s on television tonight.”
After a long, rambling autobiographical introduction by our waiter, Phillipe, I order an iced tea. Simple enough, but when it comes, it has alcohol in it. A lot of alcohol. And I don’t drink. Rather than risk embarrassment and my burgeoning reputation for being the life of the party, I say nothing about this faux pas. That’s my first mistake.
I’m tempted to devour the whole glass. I could use a little liquid courage as we await three strangers, but the liquid would no doubt be like burning magma crawling down my teetotaling throat, so I stay thirsty. This is like when I was in college and went to the one party I was invited to. I got a red Solo cup, filled it with 7 Up, and walked around the party like I was so cool.
Instead of drinking anything, I stuff a piece of bread in my mouth when Sam Wellington and his sister approach the table. He looks so good in a suit, it should be illegal. When I notice they’re sharing our table, I swallow . . . and the bread lodges tightly in my throat. I panic as I struggle for air. I grab for my throat as Sam tries to shake my hand. I make a horrifying wheezing sound, and Sam in all his GQ glory comes behind me while I gasp for breath. Really, just let me choke. I’m mortified, and there’s no coming back from this.
Kathleen’s and Haley’s eyes appear as if they’re going to pop out of their heads, and while I realize the severity of my situation, the reality of the nihilist saving my life is too much for me. When Sam’s arms come around me, I grasp his wrists as they pummel into my solar plexus—once, twice, then three times. Until the bread dislodges from my throat and lands with a clink on Haley’s bread plate.
Remember how Ananias and Sapphira died instantly in the Bible? If only . . .
“Thanks,” Haley says. “I’ll get myself a fresh slice.” She laughs to lessen the awkwardness of the situation. As if that’s going to happen. If this guy Sam is in my presence, it seems I’m going to be at my worst. I don’t know how I expect to prove to him that intelligent women can be happy if I’m an idiot every time I’m around him.
Sam is still behind me, arms clamped tightly around my middle. I’m reminded of the gelato baby I’m carrying and the sad loss of my waist. He sets his chin gently on my shoulder and whispers in my ear, “You look beautiful tonight.”
He drops his arms and pulls my chair out for me. His eyes meet mine, and I’m hypnotized while he helps me back into my seat as if we’re all dignified here. I’ve just choked on a crust of bread—it’s not as if I haven’t been eating for three decades—and he acts as if it’s never happened and I haven’t made a scene. Nor does he seem to notice the entire three-level restaurant looking in our direction.
He motions for the waiter and asks him to bring me water and a regular iced tea. When I sit down, my hand flinches and I accidentally knock over the Long Island Iced Tea glass. It clanks against the dish and splatters across everyone gathered around the table—even Sam’s sister, who hasn’t even had a chance to sit down because of all my antics. A team of waiters rushes the table. One collects up the plates, another the silverware, another the glasses. They regroup like a team of skilled surgeons and whisk away the tablecloth, then replace it with a fresh one.
For what feels like an eternity, our entire table is displaced and everyone stands around trying not to engage me, lest the luck I’m having be passed onto them like the curse I seem to be. Once the table settings are replaced and it looks like I’ve never stepped foot in the room, I stare up at the multiple levels of diners. I am clearly still the center of attention. The floor show, you might say.
Tomorrow’s speech where I’m the authority on happiness ought to be a blast. “Hey, aren’t you that chick who couldn’t handle eating solid food last night?”
We all sit down—Haley, Kathleen, Sam, Sam’s sister, a new guy, and myself.
“Thank you,” I finally manage to croak to Sam, my voice scratchy.
“Forget it,” he says. “You remember my sister, Jules, and I’m not sure you’ve met her husband, Kyle.”
“They allow married folks on the singles’ cruise?”
“Only if we behave ourselves,” Jules says. “They require us to sell the joys of marriage to be here.” She laughs at her own jokes, and I like her. She’s nerdy and owns it.
“You’re sitting at this table?” I ask. I thought being on a cruise was all about meeting new people, not the same ones I’ve managed to make a fool of myself in front of. I’m hoping for a new audience to share my wealth of antics with.
“All week,” Jules says.
Stellar.
Introductions conclude, and Jules and Kathleen discuss the benefits of yoga compared to weight lifting. Sam, who is now sitting beside me, begins to poke the bear that is my last nerve. “So tell me, Dr. Maguire, is there ever a physical reason—an objective reason—that some people can’t find happiness? Or is it all in the mind, this positive psychology stuff?”
“Sam, leave her alone,” his sister says. “We just got here. Maggie, Kyle is the one who introduced me to your work. It’s partly why I took my new job.”
I smile at her, then turn to her brother and tell him a pointed fact. “Some men can’t be happy due to low hormone levels.” I take a sip of water. “Testosterone, to be specific.”
Now it’s Sam who chokes on his water.
His sister’s jaw drops while Kyle laughs out loud. “Not a problem in our house then.”
“Maggie.” Haley stares me down as if she’s ready to kill me. “I haven’t properly introduced you to Sam’s sister. Ms. Jules Jensen has just introduced herself to me as the new president and publisher at BrainLit Books. When she says she took the job partly because of your work, it’s because your upcoming book will be the first published under her tenure.”
I swallow over the lump in my throat. “So, my publisher?” As if I need one more way to be a failure. This is why I stay home or in the lab. The person who hired me to write these books has been relieved of his duties, so I imagine Ms. Jules Jensen is questioning the worth of my contract. We have that in common, I guess.
At the very least, my friends now recognize the terrible error of their ways by pulling me away from my lonely apartment life. They should have let me rot there in my melted glory.
Sam just gazes at me with those deep, dark eyes and makes me feel like the principal used to in my elitist private school: guilty. The sting of tears is forming, as everything I ever feared happening when I left the comfort of my couch is coming true. Even though my friends are beside me, I’ve never felt so alone.
Brent Spoils, the bartender with the blazing blue eyes, walks by our table toward the exit. He’s what experts call a hedonist—the person who searches out pleasure at the expense of everything else, not giving a thought to the future or its consequences. Right now, Brent is the only shot at bliss I can imagine, and I wa
nt to chase after him like a runaway kite.
“Excuse me, won’t you?” I stand and drop the linen napkin onto the table.
“Maggie, we’re just about to order,” Haley says, reminding me Jules is essentially my new employer.
“My sleeve is wet. I think it would be best if I went back to the room and changed. I think I’ll get something at the buffet. Nice to have met you all,” I say as I make a break for the exit. “Jules, I’m so looking forward to discussing what’s next for us.” I throw that in just to remind everyone that I’m not completely nuts. But I’m close.
I venture a look back at the table as I go, and Sam’s intense scrutiny almost makes me turn around and forget my soggy sleeve. Almost. Until I remember what he said—the same thing Jake said. Smart women can’t be happy. That’s code for I’m looking for a good-time girl who is always blissfully rapturous without the added weight of being a genuine person. That way, they can forget their own misery by never having to face it. Red flag.
Just as I’m about to exit, Sam mouths, I’m sorry.
I pause before remembering just how dangerous a man like Sam is to me. How warm and sensuous his words were before he turned on me and called me out on my science in the next sentence.
How many times did Jake say he was sorry? But he never was. Romance couldn’t save me then, and it can’t save me now. It’s not the answer. I’m not the kind of woman men fall in love with, like Haley is. I’m here to search for answers to life’s bigger questions. I know I can’t run from my problems forever, but for just one more night, will anyone truly care? Someday I’ll be able to act normal again when confronted with hard truths, but that day is not today.
This will all be over in a week and I’ll never have to see any of these people again anyway. Granted, they may see me, considering my mug shot is all over this ship, but I won’t have to see them.
8
Being able to laugh at yourself is critical to your health and well-being. Laughter is associated with a longer life span.
The Science of Bliss by Dr. Margaret K. Maguire
BRENT SPOILS HAS AN UNRELENTING SMILE—it’s etched into his face as if by permanent marker. Not like the Joker in a creepy, masked way, but in this hypnotizing way that offers you a portion of his amiable manner, if only you’re willing to reach for it. Since everything else I’ve reached for has led to disaster, why not a week learning from a fun person how to have fun? Brent seems to be that man-child who loves a good time with his bros, but commitment makes him weak in the knees.
Brent is a safe target for this week’s excursion into rampant escapism that doesn’t consist of sappy movies. He doesn’t take life seriously enough to be a suitable partner for anyone, except his bar, but currently he possesses the one thing I’m missing: an exuberant zest for life.
I follow him out of the dining room like a zombie, never giving a thought to what the people I’ve left might think, except for that quick glance back to the dangerous enigma who saved my life while also dissing my life’s work.
This complete lack of self-awareness seems to be a recurring theme with me lately. The truth is, I’ll have to face my new publishing boss—and her brother—soon enough, but for one last night, I don’t want to worry about consequences. I want to have fun and remember who I was before I ever met Jake Stone and his charming but manipulative ways. If only I could regain that innocence on how I viewed people. Tonight I want to ignore why Jake’s breaking up with me sent my life into a complete tailspin and why I’ve lost the ability to trust myself. Brent is the Band-Aid I need.
“Brent!” I call after the muscular bartender, ignoring my damp arm. He turns and offers his thousand-watt smile. His teeth are perfect, like he’s been waiting for his close-up on a nighttime drama.
“If it isn’t She Blinded Me with Science!”
I don’t let it bother me that he doesn’t remember my name. The fact that he remembers who I am is enough for me. Though there are posters to remind him throughout the ship.
He touches my chin ever so gently. “Maggie,” he growls in a seductive manner, “you’ve escaped the intellectual crowd and their pompous arrogance. Does that mean you’re ready to have some fun?”
I hardly remember the last time I had fun. “Yes!”
“Awesome! I thought you might be one of those who hide behind work for all their natural-born days and let the fun play out for others.”
“Me? Never,” I say with far more assurance than I feel. The truth is, my comfort zone is back inside with colleagues and the friends who rescued me from my stupor. It’s exactly why I have to break out.
The night air is brisk but refreshing, and I let the wind whip through my hair—taking my career-appropriate coif with it. I start to shiver, but rather than worry about my dress, I focus on having fun. Would Kylie Jenner let a damp dress ruin her night? “Let’s run before my friends come looking for me.”
“Oh, a mad escape. The night is filled with potential!” Brent takes both of my hands and stretches away from me. He drinks in my appearance like a thirsty man in the desert. “You’re a vision in that dress.”
“My friends say I dress like a librarian.”
“No librarian I’ve ever met—though I haven’t spent a lot of time in libraries either. Have they gotten hotter since grade school?” He twirls me around and brings me in close with his arm cinched tightly around my waist. “I think we should go dancing. You’re dressed for it. Then, maybe after our courses are taught, we’ll go skydiving.”
Maybe I’m overestimating myself. “Skydiving in Mexico?” I stammer. “That doesn’t sound sketchy to you?”
“Nah, it’s incredible. The bluest sky, pristine aqua water below. It’s just what you need to clear the palate after a breakup. After you’ve jumped from a plane and into the abyss, you’ll know you can accomplish anything you set your mind to, and that loser will be nothing more than a mist of a forgotten memory.”
My heart hammers at the mere thought of jumping out of a perfectly good airplane. I’ve gone too far. Too much too fast. Wearing a dress is one thing, but turning into Adventure Girl when the statistics go against it might be too much for me to take. I second-guess myself when I look into Brent’s reassuring eyes. If I run now, I’ll hide behind fear for the rest of my life.
“Why not?” I say, while thinking of a million good reasons why not.
“Forget skydiving for now. If you think about it too much, you’ll chicken out. Tomorrow, since we’re all day at sea, you’ll have huge success with your talk. I’ll teach on mixology and you’ll let me handle the plans in Mexico. Just trust me. We don’t want to do anything the ship offers—too expensive and too many forms to sign. I know this guy . . .”
“How many bad ideas start with that sentence?”
“Mm-mm, a pretty face like that needs to smile more. That’s my specialty.”
I’m starting to panic already, but I try to breathe in deeply and focus my attention elsewhere. Fun. This is a new experience. Of course it’s going to feel unnatural. “If you don’t mind my asking, what exactly is mixology?”
“Specialty drinks. It’s one of the few classes they charge for on this barge. They charge to cover all the alcohol and probably my room, which is a dank cellar in the bottom of the ship. Remember the third-class passengers on the Titanic? My room is slightly better—as in, I don’t think there are any cages on my level, so I could make a swim for it if we went down. I suppose they treat your kind better than that.”
“My kind?”
“The doctors, stockbrokers, artists . . . people who make the high-end clientele able to write this trip off. I’m in charge of the partiers, and on a singles’ cruise, there are plenty. The people they want to keep reined in—cattle on the south forty of the ranch. Though they probably spend the most money on the ship. We may be classless, but we spend wads of cash.”
“Hmm.” His words give me pause as to the disparity between us. Like the time I got kicked out of a high school party when I qu
estioned the underage drinking. I was being responsible. They used the word narc and a few other choice cuss words before expelling me from the party. Shockingly, I was never invited to another one. Brent seems like the kind of guy who would have thrown those parties and never looked at me twice in high school.
He pulls me to the edge of the ship and leans over the rail. He stares into the darkness, and I can hear the gulf below lapping up against the ship. Brent’s bulges from his muscles ripple the back of his shirt, and it’s apparent that when he’s not behind the bar he’s in the gym. He’s probably never seen a chick flick in his life—unless the gym was playing the Hallmark Channel in between UFC fights.
As I stare up into the night sky dotted with sparkling jewels of stars, my senses are awakened as if they’ve been in a deep slumber. The cool breeze in my hair, the salty tang of the gulf air on my tongue, the low hum of the ship. It’s magical.
Brent reaches for me. “Come here.”
I take his hand, and he pulls me close and wraps his arm around my waist in one swift move. “So you’ve said what makes your ex happy. What makes you happy?”
I face Brent in an uncomfortably close manner. I tell myself this is better than a romantic movie, but it’s extremely awkward. Being in the sights of a guy like Brent, someone so easy and unflappable, makes me realize how surly and finicky Jake could be. I never felt at peace in his presence, like he was too good for me and I was always reaching and struggling to please him. It doesn’t take a psychologist to figure out where that came from.
I force myself to relax and rest my head on Brent’s shoulder. He casually touches the side of my arm, but it feels intimate. Accepting . . . and maybe a tad forced.
The Theory of Happily Ever After Page 8